


Turned on to the Sunset (Like I've Never Been Before)

by Eugara



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Episode Tag, Episode: s10e12 About A Boy, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 11:43:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3289106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eugara/pseuds/Eugara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tag to <em>About a Boy</em> (10x12).  If someone were to ask Sam why he's feeling this way, he'd say that it's because he's missing his brother.  His actual brother, who is very clearly of legal age.  Or maybe he's just a sick fuck.  ...It might be a bit of both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turned on to the Sunset (Like I've Never Been Before)

_Stop it. What the fuck is wrong with you?_  Sam swallows hard past the knot in his throat and tightens his hands around the Impala’s steering wheel. His fingers are trembling too much and his palms are sweating, hands slipping over the perforated leather. And his heart is hammering against his ribs, a staccato drumbeat that threatens to pound right out of his chest. If Dean looks over, he’ll notice. _Of course he’ll notice. You’re gawping at him like some kind of creepy fucking Humbert Humbert, hanging around the edges of a playground and drooling. What else is he gonna think?_  Sam takes another shaky breath, inhaling too deeply, and the tips of his fingers start to tingle as he rapidly approaches lightheadedness. And _Dean_ , for his part, was no fucking help at all. He gets into the car and practically the first thing he starts spouting off about is his fucking overactive teenage libido. Sam can’t get his mind out of the gutter if his brother insists on dragging him back in there. Dean can’t stop talking about the whole _thing_ and Sam can’t stop staring at him, and he thinks he might be very close to edging over into hyperventilating.

“Y’alright over there?” Dean asks dryly. His voice is too high. Too soft. Sam hasn’t heard his brother sound like that in years, but the long locked-away memories keep slamming back into him like crashing waves with every new word out of Dean’s mouth. “…Sammy?” he prods again.

Dean actually looks over at him this time, one eyebrow arched, but no lines etch across his forehead at the movement. There’s no accompanying crow’s feet around his eyes. No five o’clock shadow. No square jaw or callous-rough hands or thick, strong arms or broad chest. It’s Dean, but it’s not Dean…but it’s _Dean_. Exactly the way he was back when Sam was a kid. The same Dean who tucked him into motel beds and made him macaroni and marshmallows and let him believe in the goddamn Easter Bunny for way longer than he should have just because it made Sam happy. The same Dean who Sam had first started to dream about, so long ago—waking up sticky and tangled in his sheets, horrified and guilty and still so fucking turned-on. It was _this_ Dean right here, with his sharp, slender jawline and wiry frame. Lean and gorgeous and he’d seemed so fucking big at the time. Larger than life. He’d towered over Sam like one of those ancient heroes from the Greek myths he’d read about in school—perfect and strong and _how can he seem so small now?_  How can he be so young and so unmarked and still so fucking beautiful? 

Sam sucks in one more erratic, hitching breath, and then Dean’s slim fingers are scrabbling over his own. “ _Dammit_ , Sam,” he growls. It sounds too affected in his new-old body—a kitten trying to roar like a lion—and Sam can’t stop the manic laughter that tears its way out of his throat. “If this is you freaking out right now, then you pull my damn car over. You hear me?” Dean shoves at his arm, trying to steer him up onto the empty shoulder. He’s not strong enough to force the turn— _he’s so small, Sam could hold him down so easy like this, lift him up with no effort at all and wrap Dean’s thin legs around his waist, fuck him standing up, right in the center of the room_ —and Sam has to get ahold of himself in order to guide the Impala off the main road all on his own. “You put a fucking scratch on her and you’re buffing that shit out,” his brother threatens, jabbing a slender finger into Sam’s bicep as he finally gets the parking brake shoved up. Sam wants to grab Dean’s hand and slide that finger between his lips. God, he could probably get Dean’s entire dick into his mouth like this—his virgin fucking dick. 

 ** _Jesus Christ._**  Dean is a child right now. He’s a goddamn _kid_ , and Sam still wants to fuck him anyway. _What the fuck is **wrong** with him? _ “Dean, I can’t do this,” he pants, fully panicking now. “I can’t do it. I’m sorry. What are people gonna think?” He jams his head down against the steering wheel, ignoring both the short burst of the horn and the sharp pain in his skull. “I know that without the Mark—that’s _huge_ , Dean, I know. But I can’t—” He slams his eyes shut and presses his forehead harder into the wheel. “I’m freaking out, man,” he babbles frantically. “I can’t _not_ touch you. And I can’t _touch_ you. And I can’t do this for the rest of our lives.”

“ _Whoa_ , hey.” Dean rests his hand back on Sam’s upper arm, rubbing it in little, soothing circles. It doesn’t even span half his shoulder. “Calm down, kiddo. Deep breaths, okay?” Sam lets out another slightly hysterical bark of laughter at the nickname.  _Kiddo_. That woman at the motel had thought Dean was his _son_. “Who said anything about not touching me?” Dean prompts him calmly.

“What?” Sam jerks his face up, blinking stupidly at his brother. “Dean, I _can’t_. You’re—” He waves a hand around in the general direction of the passenger seat. “You’re _fourteen_ , dude.”

“I’m _thirty-six_ , Sam,” Dean shoots back flatly. Like _Sam’s_ the one being unreasonable about this whole thing. “We can do whatever the fuck we want.”

“Are you kidding me?” Sam snaps at him, horrified. “You’re _seventeen_ years younger than me right now, Dean. Can you even fucking imagine—?” He cuts himself off, choking on the filthy thought. “People think you’re my _kid_. You can’t even step foot into a freaking bar. How are we supposed to keep going on after this like nothing’s changed?”

Dean pauses for a few seconds, carefully studying Sam’s expression. Then he blinks once, his eyes set so big and vulnerable in his younger face. “So…wait. Are you saying that you don’t want to…?”

And Dean thinking that Sam doesn’t want him hurts even worse than not being able to have him at all. “ _Of course I goddamn want to_ ,” Sam hisses, slamming his hand against the dashboard and intentionally ignoring his brother’s wince on the car’s behalf. “That’s the whole fucking problem, Dean. You’re a freaking _tween_ and I still want to fuck you. I still want to do _everything_.” He slumps back down, running his hands over his face. “So what kind of fucking sicko does that make me?” Sam croaks. 

Dean remains quiet after Sam’s little Girl, Interrupted moment, and he cringes at the long, painful silence. Well, there’s his answer. “I’m sorry,” Sam whispers eventually, reaching back up for the parking brake. “I’m sorry. You said there was a girl in trouble. It’s okay. I’m okay. Let’s just go.”

“No way in hell, Sam,” Dean says firmly—his stern older brother voice, brooking no argument. Which is ridiculous, because he’s basically all of _twelve_ right now. “You get back on the road like this and you’re gonna wrap us around a telephone pole. We can spare a couple minutes to fix this thing.” He sets his jaw, takes a breath, and then determinedly climbs into Sam’s lap.

Sam jolts like he’s being prodded with a live wire. “No, Dean. What are you—?  _Don’t_.”

But his brother intentionally blows past all of his hesitations, wriggling around torturously until he’s comfortably straddling Sam’s lap, and Sam can’t stop his hips from hitching up against the solid weight. “You remember that witch?” Dean starts casually, softly brushing the hair away from Sam’s temples. “Back in Minneapolis?”

“You’re gonna have to be a little more specific than that,” Sam groans. His hands are up and out on either side of his lapful of Dean and he’s doing his absolute best to keep them that way, even if his fingers are literally shaking with the urge to touch.

“The con man,” his brother prompts, shifting forward to press against Sam more fully. If he picks up on Sam’s broken moan at the motion, he doesn’t say anything. “Y’know, the one who sounded like the Lucky Charms leprechaun?”

Sam snorts a little, trying to clear the haze of arousal swamping his brain. “Yeah, the poker guy. I remember.” Of course he remembers. That night he spent at the gambling table, frantic and desperate and _terrified_ that Dean was going to die before he could get to him. He’ll never be able to forget. “Why?”

Dean grins, and it makes him look like he belongs in a fucking boy band. “He sucked all my years away, right? Made me look like freaking Betty White.” Sam huffs out an amused breath, and Dean runs a gentle thumb along the edge of his chin. Then he glances back up at him, making sure he’s got Sam’s full attention. His eyes are round and clear and so completely serious. “Did you want me then?” he asks slowly. Frank and blunt and honest, like they’ve been trying to be lately. “C’mon, Sammy,” he adds, a little more playfully. “Did you still wanna jump my bones when I looked like one of the friggin’ California Raisins?”

Sam tosses his brother a faint smile for the attempt at a joke, then runs his mind back over those years. Those two, awful years. When Dean was furious and cold and refused to touch Sam at all—like his betrayal was some kind of communicable illness he didn’t want to catch. Like Dean could see the ugly brand of Sam’s mistakes slashed across his face every time he so much as glanced at him. Even if Sam _had_ wanted to, he never would have done anything about it. Never would have laid a finger on Dean while they were like that. Sam wasn’t strong enough then to handle Dean shoving him away without shattering into pieces.

But did he want him? 

 _Yes_. Yes, of course he did. Even then. Even looking like the old guy from those Six Flags commercials. He doesn’t know how _not_ to crave Dean’s touch. Never has. Like it’s built into his very DNA. Sam swallows silently, and then he nods.

“It’s the same thing, baby,” Dean breathes out over his lips. The endearment sounds filthy coming from him like that. Young, vulnerable Dean, with his soft skin and his ropy strength, expertly rolling his hips like the fucking thirty-six-year-old sex god he actually is. Sam whimpers and his fingers twitch, feeling his resolve starting to break. “So,” Dean continues, “unless you’re also creaming your jeans over the Jonas Brothers…”

“Jesus _Christ_ , Dean. No.”

“Then it’s okay, Sammy,” he says, pulling back to look him in the eye. “Alright?” Dean gently plants his palms on either side of Sam’s face, then leans forward to brush a kiss against the corner of his mouth. “Fuck what anyone else thinks,” he insists. “We’re discreet anyway, and we live alone. So, who fucking cares?”

 _Sam does_. 

He slowly, carefully places one of his own hands against Dean’s smooth cheek, mirroring his earlier action. It practically blankets the entire side of his face. Sam swallows back the wave of uncertainty and drags his gaze down lower, to where his brother is practically swimming in his pair of hoodies. Then he brings his other hand up to rest over Dean’s thin chest, letting the light patter of his heartbeat calm him down. “Do you really want to stay like this?” Sam asks timidly, his words barely audible over the slight rumble of the engine still idling underneath them.

His brother sighs. “I don’t know, man.” He pulls back and rubs at his arm like it itches—an unconscious habit. “I want the Mark gone, and if this is the only way to do it, then…” He scrubs the back of his hand over his forehead, visibly agitated. “It’s worth it, right? No more killing. No one else in danger. Not random lowlifes. Not Charlie. Not—not _you_ ,” Dean’s voice cracks on the last word. And of course that’s what he’s afraid of. Of course that’s what this is. Or a part of it anyway. “C’mon, Sammy,” Dean wheedles, broken smile twitching up at the corner of his mouth. “It’ll be what, four more years? And then it’ll be just like before. Won’t even be able to tell the difference. Am I right?” Sam bites down on his tongue as Dean presses another soft kiss to his lips. “Can you do this?”

Sam is supposed to say, _“Yes.”_  He’s supposed to say, _“Of course, Dean. Anything I can do to make this easier on you. The only thing that matters is that the Mark is gone.”_ But Sam is a selfish bastard. “Dean,” he whispers—his heart still heavy even as his body is clearly making it known that _it_ doesn’t mind the new developments all that much. “I want you back.”

Dean lets out a quiet chuckle. “I’m right here.” He grinds his narrow hips down hard, and Sam has to stifle a groan. “I’m not going anywhere, little brother.”

“ _You’re_ the little brother,” Sam grumbles, involuntarily bucking up at the assault—and Dean is so light that he’s fucking _lifting_ him with each thrust. It’s true though. Dean is so goddamn small now, so _young_ , and Sam can’t help but be reminded of his brother’s earlier words, back at the motel.

_“I got no grass on the infield…”_

Sam bites back a strangled moan. Oh god, he’s sick. He’s a sick fucker and he doesn’t even care because the thought of Dean, _bare_ , just sends bolts of hot lightning shooting up Sam’s spine.

“Yeah, alright, Sammy,” Dean is saying now, swept up in the moment and scrabbling with the fly of his own oversized jeans. “C’mon. You wanna fuck me like this? Got a virgin ass now. How tight you think it is? Fucking pin me up against a wall and keep me there. Think you could do it one-handed? I bet you could do it.” He studies Sam’s face for a moment, then narrows his eyes and drops into a wicked whisper. “Or do you want me to fuck you? Give it to you just like I am. You wanna bend over for me, even when I look like this? I can do it. Push you down on your knees, make you take my cock. Anything you want, Sammy,” he promises. “Anything you want.”

Sam wants to shout, _“Both.”_  He wants to say, _“Yes. Please. Everything.”_  Dean’s familiar dirty talk in that soft, burgeoning voice is going to kill him dead. There’s just a faint hint of the deep gravel that it will eventually become, and Sam feels like _crying_ out of pure want. Dean surges forward again to latch onto his mouth, and he tastes like cake and frosting, and Sam is in heaven as he claws at his brother’s jeans. Kissing this exact version of Dean is something that he used to _fantasize_ about, and despite everything else, he’s so inordinately grateful for this chance to make his childhood dreams come true.

Dean wraps both hands around the nape of Sam’s neck, and Sam spans a hand across the majority of Dean’s back in return, cradling his brother up against his chest as he struggles with his zipper. He finally gets it undone, letting out a cry of victory into Dean’s mouth, and then glances down to come face-to-face with a tiny pair of briefs. Like tighty-whities, but brightly colored. Sam is stuck just staring and blinking as his brain catches up with him…because Dean is wearing freaking _Underoos_. Blue and red, with a cartoon of Captain America’s shield boldly printed across the fly. “Oh, Jesus Christ,” he whimpers.

“What? Oh, _fuck_ ,” his brother groans in accord once he spots them, dropping his head back in exasperation. “The Hound-looking dude probably—” He gestures a hand over his own body. “Not my clothes. He must have dressed us while we were knocked out and— _shit_.” Dean cringes, then risks a glance up at him. “How dead is the mood right now?”

“Pretty dead,” Sam squeaks.

His brother digs his teeth into his bottom lip, trying for one more coaxing rock of the hips. “You sure?” he asks temptingly.

Sam can’t. Dean is wearing Captain America underpants and they have a girl to rescue and he can’t. Not right now. They got too swept up in this whole _thing_. They were supposed to be back on the road five minutes ago. And Dean is wearing fucking _Underoos_.

Dean seems to take his silence for an answer. “Yeah, alright,” he grumbles as he slides off of Sam’s lap and back into the passenger seat, yanking at his zipper. “Fucking Two-Face. Now I’ve got _another_ reason to gank the son of a bitch.”

Sam bids a mental goodbye to the wilting erection in his lap, then tugs down the brake and pulls the car back out onto the empty road. “So,” he says after a slightly awkward minute of driving. “We got a plan for when we get to this place?”

“Save the girl, stop the bad guy,” Dean recites automatically to the passenger window. He chuckles quietly to himself, then turns away from his perusal of the passing scenery to give Sam one of his best leers. It looks obscene on him now. Gorgeously, perfectly obscene. “Then, we come back to the motel and do a little celebrating of our own, huh?” he drawls. “Knock out the liver virginity first, with a couple of shots…and then we can knock out that  _other_ one.” Dean waggles his eyebrows ridiculously. “Sound like a plan?” 

Sam tosses his brother a weak smile across the bench seat. He can see a faint shadow of Dean’s former self overlaid across each movement of his younger features—and it makes him ache. With loss or lust or maybe something else entirely. Sam would be completely willing to give up this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity Dean is offering him right now if it meant that this whole thing was fixed. If it meant  _his_ Dean was back. He’d do it gladly. In a heartbeat. His eyes flick down to his brother’s right forearm—currently covered by two layers of soft fabric—but unmarked. Whole. Sam swallows and turns back to face the road. “Yeah,” he says softly. “It’s a plan.”

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from The Monkees’ "Sweet Young Thing"


End file.
